


Body Count

by Sherlocked_Gallifreyan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: ??????? - Freeform, Gen, every last fandom or character we could think of, hunterpeverell do you know where we were going with the garth thing?, i found this in a notebook that was almost completely empty, i've got what looks like, written under GARTH in my notebook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 11:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlocked_Gallifreyan/pseuds/Sherlocked_Gallifreyan
Summary: The most recent string of murders in London all seem to have some sort of supernatural aspect. Inconveniently for Mycroft, the Winchesters are nowhere to be found and Sherlock is busy hunting down a man named Moriarty.Probably won't be continued.





	Body Count

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HunterPeverell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterPeverell/gifts).



> Dude I'm pretty sure we drafted this thing up together. I don't know if you remember it at all because I totally forgot about it. I found it looking for a notebook to write in that wasn't for class notes. Where were we going with Garth and all the other characters and shows listed in this notebook? We've got Sherlock and John, a couple of the Doctors, Night Vale, the story you've been working on, and a whole shit load of others. Whatever we had planned, it was gonna be big. The date on the second page of this story is 21 October 2014.
> 
> Anyway, this is all I've got written for the demon!Moriarty fic. With very few minor changes, it's been typed up as it appears in my notebook.

Sam and Dean Winchester were dead. Absolutely, irrevocably, unquestionably _dead_. Two men fitting their descriptions to a T were seen at a coffee shop in Albuquerque. They bought coffees and pastries, then drove off into the desert in a very well-kept black ‘67 Chevy Impala. The Winchesters were dead, and they were running around New Mexico, buying _pastries_. Mycroft placed the most recent picture of the brothers on his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. It didn’t make any sense. But then again, nothing about the Winchesters made sense.  
  
According to his sources, Sam and Dean grew up with their absentee father and spent a lot of time with a man named Bobby Singer (on whom Mycroft had extensive records, even though there were numerous holes and discrepancies in those records). Mary Winchester had died in a suspicious house fire when the boys were young. John Winchester then spent years hunting down the arsonist even though the official cause was listed as an electrical short. Dean did his best to raise Sam right during these years; he did quite well. Sam was set to attend Stanford when their father disappeared and Sam’s girlfriend died in a fire under the same circumstances as Mary Winchester.  
  
What followed was the greatest serial killing spree in history. The Winchester brothers were prolific killers, but they had never been brought to charges. At first glance, the victims seemed random; there were two very disturbing similarities, however. The first was strange, to be sure, but still acceptable: shortly before the Winchesters made their kill, there was a disturbance of some sort in the area. Mycroft found the second connection almost impossible to accept: the disturbance centered around a supernatural being. He had questioned his sources repeatedly when they reported these beings. Either they were all terribly mistaken, or these supernatural entities existed against all logic.  
  
Try as he might, Mycroft could not find the Winchesters. After they left the coffee shop, the brothers simply disappeared. All Mycroft knew was that the Winchesters weren’t dead. Was it even _possible_ for them to die? Their absence was concerning, but something somewhere always happened to draw them back out of hiding. It was possible, although not very likely, that one or both brothers had been arrested. Breaking and entering, arson, murder, impersonating federal agents, and God only knew what else; somehow Sam and Dean Winchester got away with it all. The few times they were arrested, they were never held for long.  
  
Then there was the issue of Castiel, the man who understood normal people about as well as Sherlock. Reports indicated that Castiel could teleport at will and that he seemed to possess supernatural powers of his own. The word his sources attached to Castiel was “angel”. The tax accountant staring back at him from the pile of photographs didn’t look much like an angel. Then again, no one really knew what angels looked like. Everyone assumed that they had to look like noble warriors or gentle messengers. Maybe some of them looked like tax accountants. _Holy_ tax accountants. Mycroft scoffed at the adjective.  
  
The whole thing was absolutely ridiculous. Just another ridiculous problem in a pile of ridiculous problems. Mycroft would have been tempted to write the whole thing off as some ill-intentioned prank were it not for the corpses piling up in London morgues. These corpses were the reason Mycroft needed to contact the Winchesters: each one had died in a highly unlikely or extremely impossible way. A healthy man in his early twenties died of a heart attack. A young woman found dead in her kitchen showed signs of having been in a serious car accident. A father of three burned to death in a perfectly normal swimming pool while his children remained unscathed. It just went _on_ and _on_.  
  
There were fifty corpses thus far. Mycroft wanted to call Sherlock in on this, but Sherlock was chasing a faceless criminal mastermind known as Moriarty. For a moment, Mycroft had been at a loss as to what to do, but the moment passed in a heartbeat. He had called an acquaintance in America and told him to call back if he or his team had any viable leads on the Winchesters. Mycroft was more inclined to trust this particular team due to certain qualifications they possessed. His usual contacts worked fine in most instances, but this was not most instances. This was as far from “most instances” as one could get.  
Mycroft suspected Moriarty might have something to do with the deaths, but he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Nor did he want to drag Sherlock into this mess quite yet; as previously noted, Sherlock had more than enough occupying him at present.

xxxxxxxx

James Moriarty had more than “something” to do with the deaths; he personally orchestrated each and every one of them. Sometimes he stopped to ponder the reasons behind his actions and always came back to the same conclusion: he killed because he enjoyed it. The human he had befriended enjoyed the murders as much as Moriarty did. There was something definitely and delightfully wrong with dishonorably discharged sniper Sebastian Moran. He was so wonderfully sadistic. As much as Moriarty loved these particular traits, there was something he genuinely appreciated (a sentiment which confused him and was therefore seldom thought about): Sebastian anchored him and kept him from whimsically destroying this gorgeous meat suit. As fond as Moriarty was of the body, he was self-destructive and terribly capricious. Some days, it didn’t take much to set him off. Those were the days with higher body counts. Sebastian learned to take these days in stride and adapted rather quickly to his unpredictable boss.


End file.
